Veneficus Reputo
by Aisling-Siobhan
Summary: LV/TMR Harry Potter caught a train Somewhere. Tom Riddle had Nowhere else to go. Except to Lord Voldemort, who was, technically, Tom Riddle too. AU ending for Deathly Hallows. Slash.


"Veneficus Reputo"

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is property of JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros, et all. I make no money from this and I own nothing, don't sue.

**Summary: ** [LV/TMR] Harry Potter caught a train Somewhere. Tom Riddle had Nowhere else to go. Except to Lord Voldemort, who was, technically, Tom Riddle too. AU ending for Deathly Hallows.

**Warnings: ** Slash. LV/TMR. Violence. Char Death. AU. Um, incest (is it incest if it's your Horcrux? Self-cest? Masturbation? Idk!)

**Rating: ** NC-17.

**Title:** I have no idea why I named it "Veneficus Reputo": I must have had a reason, but I can't remember it, and now Google Translate insists it means "think wizard", which is definitely not what I was aiming for! So yeah… It was supposed to have something to do with Voldemort's narcissism.

**A/N**: This was BOOMrobotdog's idea… and the moment I agreed to write it I noticed someone posted a similar sounding summary. I didn't read it, but BOOM says it's nothing like what I had planned! I have a seriously fucked up brain, so hopefully this is original enough.

_XXX_

"Egotism is the art of seeing in yourself what others cannot see" - George V. Higgins. As a psychopath and a narcissist, who else could Voldemort love, but himself?

**Words: ** 5,333

**Chapter 1**

Harry turned the ring over in his hands. His fingers fumbled, nearly dropping it, but he managed to catch it again, squeezing it tightly, and turned it over once more; three times in total.

With his eyes closed, Harry couldn't see if it had worked, but he could hear the rustling sound of feet over dead leaves, and the swishing of robes, and he clenched his fingers closed tightly around the ring, hoping desperately for something, anything to have happened. When he opened his eyes he noticed them immediately. They weren't real, weren't flesh like he was, but neither did they look like the Bloody Baron or Nearly-Headless Nick. They were sort of a mixture of the two, looking more like Tom Riddle from the diary in his second year, almost-see-through, but almost-there at the same time, close enough to touch but insubstantial enough to touch _through_. But they were there.

James looked the same as he had the day he died, with the same clothes on and his glasses askew and Harry only knew that because in his dreams he had watched his father die over and over again. His mother smiled warmly at him, her arms raised as if to hug him, but she didn't move closer to him either. Lily was as beautiful as Harry had always imagined her to be, and she pressed herself against her dead husband's side and simply watched her child cry quietly.

Sirius looked older than them, but younger than Harry had remembered him being. Maybe it was because all of the lines that had marred his face in life had smoothed out in death, transparent, almost non-existent, and Harry's godfather looked happy and peaceful, and Harry could no longer mourn his passing. If Sirius was happy, how could Harry not be?

It was a surprise to see Remus standing beside them. The last of the Marauders, he looked bone tired, but he was smiling softly, waving at Harry in welcome. This was the man whose wife had had a baby only a couple months ago. Harry wondered what had happened to Nymphandora, but then he pushed the thought from his mind. He didn't really want to know, to be honest; he was done with that life. He had only wanted to say goodbye to his family in life, before he too would die and see them once more.

"Wait for me, guys," Harry whispered, still squeezing the ring. "I'm coming now. I'm ready."

"We'll be waiting," Lily's mouth moved, saying the words. But Harry didn't hear them. They were lost between life and death, and only the fact that Harry had been staring at her and his father alternatively meant that he had seen her trying to speak.

"Come soon, son," James whispered, and Harry read his lips too.

With shaking fingers, Harry let the ring drop to the forest floor, and he kicked up some leaves and dirt in the hopes that he would hide the Resurrection Stone from passing Death Eaters. Then he glanced once more at his family, and turned towards the clearing where he knew Voldemort was waiting.

_XXX_

He could see them all, crowding around the Dark Lord, and watching him ravenously. Their eyes barely left his still form, as if afraid of what might happen if they looked away. Some devoured the sight of him in hunger, others in fear, but all of them looked upon him with reverence, with respect, and with terror.

There was Fenrir Greyback, filing his nails on what looked like some kind of animal bone. His teeth were bared and every now and then his nostrils flared as he scented the air, waiting for Harry Potter. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy stood a little further away from the Dark Lord, trembling and pale faced; both looked defeated and worried, no doubt wondering what had happened to their only son. Bellatrix Lestrange waited with her husband and brother-in-law, all three looking more excited than they had a right to be, awaiting someone's death with unhidden glee. She kept glancing at the Dark Lord's face, then his torso, then his crotch, and back up again, dark eyes blown wide with lust, but Voldemort ignored her. He waited, too, surrounded by his loyal servants, for the end of everything to come before him, to face him as he was prophesised to.

But Harry hadn't come.

Not yet.

Harry stood in the shadows, hidden by a line of trees and his invisibility cloak. Around him, two Death Eaters discussed the possibility that Harry might have been using said cloak to hide himself, but neither reached out to test their theory. His family hovered around him, unseen by anyone else, but the Master of the Hallows, offering silent support and courage. Harry didn't think he would have been able to do this without them.

"I was," Voldemort whispered, sounding rather disappointed and shocked, as if he couldn't believe that he had been wrong, "it seems, mistaken."

Harry pulled off his cloak, folded it up around his wand, and shoved them both under his robes. The Death Eaters hadn't noticed him yet, and Harry used his last moment alive to glance back at his parents, and their friends, only to find them gone. But he'd see them soon, he consoled himself, taking two steps forward, into Voldemort's line of sight.

"You weren't."

The Death Eaters were talking, hissing and whispering among one another, and Bellatrix surged forward only to be pulled back by the two Lestrange brothers.

Harry paid them no attention. He was focused solely on Voldemort. It was as if there were no body else within the forest, but the two of them, no one left alive but them. He couldn't look away from the Dark Lord, and Voldemort's attention was similarly focused solely on the Boy-Who-Lived. Something within him screamed for Voldemort's attention, but Harry ignored the voice, ignored the strange feeling that he had only ever felt when in the presence of a Horcrux, and raised his chin high. And waited.

Voldemort smiled suddenly, but there was no humour in it. Instead, he seemed merely disappointed, as if the punch line hadn't been delivered correctly and the joke had merely wasted his time. But, Harry thought, perhaps that's all this was to him? A joke that just wouldn't end… But now it was, ending that is. It was all about to end.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort whispered, raising the wand he had stolen from Dumbledore's tomb. "The boy who lived."

Silently, Harry encouraged him to cast the curse, to hurry up before his legs gave out from fear and nervousness and he collapsed in front of the dark order. But Voldemort's mouth was already moving, sounding out the words that would bring an end to all of this, and Harry merely watched, feeling his wand press against his stomach yet making no move to reach for it and attack. There was no point. Green light was on its way towards him, and Voldemort tilted his head to one side like a curious child and waited to see how everything would end.

The green light hit, and Harry fell backwards, his last thought was if his parents would be there to meet him in the afterlife. And then it was all over.

_XXX_

When Harry woke up, he was rather surprised. After all, normal people don't survive the Killing Curse once, let alone twice, but it seemed that Harry had. He pushed himself slowly to his knees, and then to his feet, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to pull his legs out from under him and made his way to the bench that was waiting just a little ahead of him. If he hadn't been so confused, he might have noticed that someone was waiting for him at the bench, curling a finger through his long, white beard, and smiling. Beneath another bench, to Harry's right, a child cried, curled up into a ball. Harry glanced once at it, and then towards the bench he had chosen, starting as he finally noticed Dumbledore.

"You're dead!" Harry gasped.

"So it would appear," the man answered jovially, glancing around the train station, as if indicating that Harry should too. And so he did, he looked behind him and in front of him, and from side-to-side, his eyes widening as he recognized where they were. "Yes, yes," Dumbledore told him, "Platform nine and three-quarters. Though it has been some time since you last seen it, am I correct?"

"Yeah. The end of sixth year. It's the same, only," Harry stopped speaking, glancing around once more, and then said, "Only it's much quieter." He ignored the baby crying.

"Oh it's very busy, Harry. Very much so, but since you still have a choice to make, you can't see them." Harry pointed at the baby, a question on the tip of his tongue, but Dumbledore cut in swiftly. "Don't mind him. You can't help him Harry."

"It's the Horcrux though, isn't it?"

Dumbledore choose not to answer. Instead, he patted the bench softly and waited for Harry to take a seat. When Harry was sitting, the man turned to face him, sliding closer together. "Have you decided what you need to do, Harry?"

"Well, I'm dead, aren't i?"

Dumbledore offered a strange smile, as if he knew something that Harry didn't, but wasn't quite sure he wanted to tell either. "I suppose you are. But not everything is certain, my boy. A lot of negotiation takes place, you know, especially when you have Mastered death."

"The Hallows?"

"Those, yes. Rather interesting artefacts, don't you think?" Dumbledore held up his arm, the one that had turned black and withered as a result of Voldemort cursing the Ring, the Resurrection Stone. "There are three choices ahead of you, my boy, and only you may decide what you wish to do. Death cannot take your soul unless you allow it. You can go nowhere, or somewhere, or elsewhere."

"What do they mean?" harry asked, confused, unsure what was what and which he should pick. He wanted to see his parents, he knew that much. He had resigned himself to his death and he had done his part, he was _finished_, but what if he, in ignorance, picked the wrong thing?

"Think about it, Harry. The answer will come to you."

With that, Dumbledore turned away from Harry. And Harry, with nothing to do but think, stood up and walked towards the crying baby. He glanced at the Horcrux, still curled foetally under the bench, and with some hesitation he reached down to pull the child out. He looked about fifteen-months-old, the age Harry was when this Horcrux was created, and he was dirty and bleeding, the product of a broke, splintered soul. The child stopped crying once Harry touched him, eyes wide and watery and glancing up with so much trust that Harry nearly dropped the baby.

Well, Harry supposed, he was the only person this Horcrux would have known for his entire life, who else would he trust? It was a little daunting, thinking that he had carried this creature around with him for years, protecting and nurturing a part of Lord Voldemort, as if he were an expectant mother, but it could have been worse. After all, nobody knew the full consequences of using a living person as a Horcrux.

"What's going to happen to him?" Harry asked, turning back to Dumbledore with the child cradled in his arms.

"No harm shall befall him, regardless of your choice, Harry."

"I want to go Somewhere," he said at last, bouncing the baby lightly. "I want to see my family again. Is that selfish of me?"

"No," Dumbledore assured him. "You've given more than any one had the right to ask of you. You've been so brave, so strong, and we're all so very proud of you. Now, now you've earned your rest. Give me the child, Tom cannot go where you are going." Harry handed the baby over, and Dumbledore immediately placed him on the floor beneath their bench, ignoring him as he began to wail anew. "That is your train, that one there," Dumbledore told him, pointing at the bright red steam engine that waited on the tracks, patiently chugging out puffs of smoke.

Harry turned towards it, and then back at Dumbledore. "Goodbye, I suppose."

"Remember, my boy, to a well-organized mind…"

Harry interrupted, "death is but the next great adventure."

"So it is. So it is." Dumbledore agreed, raising a hand to wave good bye, but Harry already had his back to him, one foot on the train and one still on the platform. After a moment, Harry took a deep breath, and then he boarded the Express; the doors slammed shut behind him. The moment the doors closed, Tom's crying stopped. Dumbledore bent to glance under the bench and sighed. There was no child there, there was no Horcrux left at the train station. Tom was gone, and Dumbledore had a fair idea of where to, but that wasn't Harry's burden to know and so he had kept that knowledge to himself. Albus hoped, he hoped desperately, that Tom had spent enough time within Harry's mind to be a different person to Lord Voldemort, a better person, because the Wizarding world wouldn't be able to cope with two Dark Lords. And Death only needed to take one soul: Harry's.

_XXX_

When Harry died, Lord Voldemort had felt as if all of his breath was leaving him in one go, His chest grew tight, and his ribs began to ache. There was a sudden dull pressure behind his eyes and a horrible nauseous feeling in his stomach. Gasping, he had fallen to his knees, his fingers digging into the dirt of the forest as he tried to remember where he was, who he was, why he was hurting. What had happened?

His Death Eaters screamed and swarmed around him, only adding to his headache, and he tried to block them out, tried to think of something to end his pain. He hadn't felt like this since… since… October 1981. He had felt pain like this then, as Harry Potter reflected his Killing Curse, as his soul was ripped from his body, scattered like ashes on the wind as his vessel crumbled and crumpled around him. It couldn't be happening again, it couldn't be! Could it? He vaguely wondered what his Death Eaters would do if he had been defeated once more, would they help him? Would they abandon him? Would they kill Nagini and run like the cowards they were?

And the most pressing question within his troubled mind, would Potter survive?

As the pain faded, as the Death Eaters calmed down, Voldemort managed to pull himself to his feet, leaning back against Bellatrix for one moment before pushing her away, disgusted with his weakness. The forest swam back into clear view, no longer blurred or peppered with fuzzy black spots, and Voldemort glanced around, looking at his Death Eaters first and then at the body that lay sprawled out on the floor, arms spread and legs straight looking every inch the martyr.

Then Harry Potter sat up.

Voldemort's wand was in his hand, and his other hand was clenched into a tight fist. His face was twisted in anger, more terrifying that anyone could ever recall it being, and his Death Eaters ducked out of the way, wary of his wrath. "You!"

"No," Tom corrected. "I am _you_."

Voldemort stilled, head tilted to the side again, and he studied the quiet, pale boy. He looked like Harry Potter, he sounded like Potter, but he held himself differently. He didn't use his hands to get up; instead he pushed himself up with his knees, standing in the same manner that Voldemort had moments ago. They watched each other; both heads tilted in the same way, both with frowns on their mouths and narrowed eyes.

"Well, no wonder he disliked you, if this was how you turned out. I rather dislike you too. How could you have so little self-respect, to look like this?" Tom snorted, "And we used to be so beautiful." He added, mournfully, shaking his head softly.

"What game are you playing, Potter?" Voldemort demanded, the tip of his wand pressing against Tom's left cheek.

The scar on his forehead taunted the elder man, as his breath passed over Harry's fringe, blowing it to the side. Tom only laughed, reaching up to push Voldemort's arm away, unconcerned by the Dark Lord. "_Are you so far gone_", he whispered in Parseltongue, surprising the crowding Death Eaters into taking several steps backwards, "_that you cannot even recognize your own Horcrux when he is staring you in the face?_ Have we really sunk so low?"

"Explain!" Voldemort snarled his voice so low it could almost be mistaken for a hiss of Parseltongue. Tom merely smiled, still unconcerned.

"_What did you think would happen after splitting your soul,_ Tom?" Tom said to the Dark Lord. "_And then failing to complete the deed. You left a live vessel behind, with a shard of your soul floating around, and nowhere else for it to go. Just like I had nowhere to go. So here I am, and here you are._ And Harry Potter is not: unlike us, he had somewhere to be." Tom paused, looking the Dark Lord up and down curiously. This was who he would have become, who he would be now if it wasn't for Harry.

He could remember Harry, as a child, and then later almost an adult, he remembered Harry at the train station, holding and comforting him while Dumbledore sat content to ignore his pain, and he remembered Harry leaving to go find his family, leaving him for the first time without another soul to anchor his own. He was free to… do what he wasn't sure, but he want about to become a deformed monster at any rate. He rather preferred to be beautiful.

"I suppose I should hate you, for killing him, I mean. He was the only parent I've ever known, even if he didn't realize it until he was dead. Harry took care of me, I suppose you could say we've suffered through sixteen years of pregnancy together, and he was all I've ever had. Now I'm stuck with you, and you are stuck with me too, Tom, you realize that? You can't kill me, I am a part of you, and you can't send me away or let me leave, in case I am used against you. So what will you do with me?" Tom looked at the Dark Lord.

Red eyes watched him warily, seeing the truth in his words, but Harry Potter's mouth continued to move without waiting for a response. "Use me, Tom, _I'm giving you my permission. We've never liked to be at the beck and call of others, have we? Under the thumb, ordered around, controlled; it's never been a feeling we've enjoyed, has it? But I'm giving you permission, just this once. I look like Harry Potter. I could be Harry Potter, and no one would know the difference._ Imagine, their reactions, their fear, their compliance, if Harry Potter had sided with you! Use me to your advantage, and together, we could rule the world."

Voldemort thought about it. His Death Eaters spoke amongst each other, having only heard half of the conversation they attempted to piece it together among themselves, trying desperately to understand what was going on. But Voldemort knew what Tom had meant, knew what Tom intended. After all, that had been his original goal, hadn't it? To turn them all to his side through talk and politics, to connive and convince and manipulate. It had never been about unnecessary killings, not until he was so lost in the Dark Arts that he couldn't remember what it was he had wanted, not until he was too far gone to stop. But now, he had Tom, Harry, whoever that boy was. Tom Riddle was essentially himself: they were one and the same, despite their different upbringings. Voldemort only had loyalty towards himself, only trusted himself, and despite some fondness for Harry Potter, Tom Riddle couldn't be much different.

Voldemort nodded his head, and Tom smiled.

_XXX_

It had been easy to play Harry Potter. It was a person Tom had grown up with, known intimately, from the recesses of his mind, to his darkest fear, his fondest wishes, and his thoughts and words and actions. Nobody could tell the difference. Tom got rid of the glasses, changed his clothes to something that Malfoy might have worn, but he still came across as the same old Harry Potter.

Voldemort was rather proud of himself. He had always been a manipulator, capable of lying about anything, of getting away with murder, and conning old ladies out of their possessions with ease. But to see a part of himself, fooling their entire world without breaking a sweat, it made something within him ache. It wasn't painful, but it was also something he had never felt before. It throbbed inside of his chest, dark and hungry, and coiled in his stomach, it made his legs shake and his fingers clenched, and every time he lay eyes upon his other half something set his insides on fire. Voldemort wondered if it were jealousy or envy? But no, he had felt those emotions before, towards the children in the orphanage who were treated better than he was, or the children at Hogwarts who had more than he had. He had hated many, and this was a different feeling to that. He had liked a handful of people genuinely, literally one or two, and while he felt the same odd fondness towards Tom, the other feeling was so much stronger, more powerful and yet soft and weak, fleeting, as if he could lose hold of it and never be able to catch it again. It was frustrating, trying to figure it all out, and each time he felt it, Tom would turn and catch his eyes and Potter's mouth would curl up like the Cheshire Cat, knowing something that Voldemort didn't.

Finally, after months of watching Voldemort watch him, after having figured out why Voldemort would watch him, Tom could take no more. He had raised a hand one day, dismissing the Death Eaters that were lounging around them, hoping for praise or acknowledgment. Though it was Lucius Malfoy's home they lived within, even he was made to leave the room along with his family, each of them filing out the door until only the Dark Lords were left.

"Why is it you watch me?" Tom asked softly, moving to stand over Voldemort who remained seated on the divan.

"I do not know," he answered, voice low and eyes narrowed. He did not like admitting ignorance, but since he was only admitting it to himself it wasn't as humiliating as it would otherwise be.

"I know. Should I tell you?" Tom waited a moment, still smiling, but Voldemort gave no reply. His face stayed expressionless and his eyes stayed fixed on Tom's face and his wand stayed tucked up the sleeve of his robe. "I think I'll tell you. Though, I must say, it does make the majority of people correct about us. We really are sick fucks, hmm? It is desire, Tom, what you are feeling. Lust and want and _need_ and desire: that burning, pounding feeling within you, the urge to reach out and take, take, take, to sate yourself at someone else's expense, the clenching in your chest, the trembling of your thighs. Harry has felt it often enough for me to recognize, and the look upon your face when you see me, soft and tender: I'm sure the sight of it has scared many of our followers at least once. It is such an unexpected sight. And to think!" Tom let out a loud chuckle, "he might have even learnt to desire you back, if only you hadn't killed me. How sick are we, hmm? Lusting after a corpse!" The thought seemed to amuse Tom very much, because he threw his head back and laughed, loud and long and Voldemort watched him in silence, his fingers clenched in his lap.

"I do not… **fancy** Potter!" He spat out. "I have met the boy often enough before his death and never once have I felt so… such… never once have I felt." He said, unable to put a word to how he actually felt. Tom might have been right, Voldemort conceded, because after all he had never desired anyone before; he had had sex yes, when it had been offered to him, out of curiosity and the desire to learn something new, but not out of actual desire for a person. If Tom had felt it, Tom would know, Voldemort admitted to himself. But, he added angrily, staunchly, he did not feel anything for Potter.

"Ah," Tom said after a moment's silence. "I see. Well, that makes you worse than I originally thought. Though I have to admit, it is a rather lucky coincidence."

"What?" Voldemort snarled, finally standing up. He pushed Tom back, though the boy only let himself be moved about an inch away, before standing firm and pushing Voldemort's arm away instead.

"You are a psychopath. We are, in fact. If we study the clinical definition, we'd match up perfectly. Of course, I am including your inability to care for others, taking into account your ego and narcissism, it would only make sense that you'd eventually feel this way. It normally couldn't occur, because after all, you are you and no one else is. And yet, here I am, messing with fate and Muggle psychology. I am you. And you are you. And you _desire_ yourself. It is a good thing we are both narcissists then, isn't it, Tom?"

Then Tom surged forward, before Voldemort could reply or even think about what he had just been told, and there were lips upon his and hands on his shoulders dragging him down to Harry's height. Without conscious thought, his own hands were seeking Tom's body, pressing and caressing, and gripping him tightly so that this feeling could never escape him. His knees were weak, and his chest was pounding, something within it beating against his ribcage and making him dizzy. Tom seemed to remember they had to breath first, because he pulled away, panting lightly against Voldemort's cheek. The Dark Lord, the elder, reached out hesitantly to press a hand to Tom's head, drawing his face back to his, pulling their mouths together once more. They kiss, passionately, furiously, leaving bruises on hips and cheeks and shoulders, for what seemed like hours, until Tom grew tired of this.

As a 'normal' person, Harry had had many wet dreams, but had never engaged in the act itself. Voldemort had had sex before, but he didn't fantasise about it, or even bother to remember his experiences. He would have been content to just kiss his other self, to keep hold of the wildness that was within him, the need that rose up like a tsunami, sweeping through his very being. Tom, though, was much more impatient.

He shoved Voldemort backward, until the man lay sprawled on the divan, panting. Without a word, Tom unbuttoned the robe he was wearing, shucking it off so that it could slide from his shoulders and pool at his feet. He wasn't wearing a shirt, but he reached then for his trousers, watching Voldemort watch him as he undressed.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered. Voldemort did as he was told, pulling off his robe and unzipping his trousers, pushing them down only far enough to free his erection, but otherwise he remained dressed; a punishment for Tom who now stood fully naked in the study, nipples hardened from the cold.

"Come here," Voldemort was the one who gave an order this time. And Tom obeyed, slinking forward, like a panther after its prey, and crawled into Voldemort's lap.

"You want this," Tom whispered against Voldemort's lips. "Say it."

"You already know it to be true," the Dark Lord said instead, refusing to lower himself any further, even for the other half of his soul. "Now," he demanded, "prepare yourself."

Voldemort watched panting lightly, as Tom sucked his fingers into his mouth, licking obscenely at each of them in turn, making sure Voldemort's eyes were always on him. Tom leaned forward, Harry's green eyes staring directly into Voldemort's red ones, as his hand slipped between them, and behind, to probe at his own entrance. This would be his first time, and so with care and patience he stretch himself, feeling Voldemort's cock press up into his thigh with every movement, with every push and twist of his fingers, and arch of his back, and gasp that left his mouth.

After three fingers, Voldemort found he couldn't wait any longer. This was the first time he had desired for the act to hurry up because he wanted to experience it. Usually, he wanted it to hurry so it would be over and done with. But now, with Tom, with _himself_ he couldn't wait for the pleasure that came at the very end.

"Remove your fingers," Voldemort said.

Tom knew he wasn't suitably stretched, but he was sure it would do, and there were always healing spells and potions he could take after the act if any damage was done. So Tom did as he was told, and he raised himself up onto his knees, as Voldemort took hold of his own cock and positioned it. Without waiting to be told, Tom slid down, closer to Voldemort's lap and onto his cock, closing his eyes at the burning, stinging pain that began at the base of his spine and shot the whole way up through his body. There was an uncomfortable fullness to begin with, the sting of being stretched too far too fast, and then Voldemort raised his hips and Tom couldn't help the gasp that left his throat. His mouth was open, and Voldemort leant forward, pushing himself chest to chest with Tom so that their mouth could meet in a sloppy, desperate kiss. Hands squeezed Tom's hips, and Voldemort bucked up into him, twisting and flipping them so that Tom lay on the bottom. The younger Wizard threw his head back with a moan, surrendering himself to the mercy of Lord Voldemort.

And Voldemort was, indeed, a merciful Lord, Tom decided half an hour later, still panting from his orgasm. His whole body ached, and his thighs and arse was sticky, and there was sweat coating every inch of his tanned skin, but as Voldemort's mouth met his again, tongue hesitant against his own, Tom decided it was worth it. Everything Harry had been put through, and everything he had felt as a result, it was all worth it now.

"I rather like myself you know," Tom said conversationally, his legs still clenched around Voldemort's waist and the other man's cock pressing wetly at his entrance. "I suppose that makes you a very lucky man, and me, considering."

Voldemort looked down on him, eyes softened and chest still heaving. "I suppose," he said at last, reaching up with one hand to press lightly against Tom's cheek. "Though I would prefer if your eyes were blue."

"Yes," Tom agreed, "our eyes did used to be a rather nice shade of blue." He met Voldemort's mouth again, lips sliding softly against each other's, tongues pressing lightly and breath mingling. Tom pulled away reluctantly, leaning into the hand that Voldemort still held to his face. His eyes met the Dark Lord's, and with a grin he said, "Though red happens to be a rather fetching colour on us as well. I find I rather like myself _very much_."

**The End**


End file.
